Good Vibrations Magazine

I am not saying this as some campaign slogan or religious cry, “Jesus loves you!” No, I am quite in earnest. Sarah Palin, the Governor of Alaska, Vice-Presidential candidate, loves me.

Remember all that winking she did during the debate? That was for me.

Have you seen those youtube videos of her at her Church in a trance-like, laying-on-of-hands-like, speaking-in-tongues-like state? My penis caused that.

Most importantly, though, I am responsible for her current Vice-Presidential aspirations.

It all began eight years ago. I went up to Alaska with a friend of mine to get a job on a fishing boat. My friend assured me that not only would we be paid handsomely but because we’d be stuck on the boat we’d come back to a full salary. My only concern was where on such a little boat I would be able to masturbate. You’re on the boat for months; a fella could die.

As fate would have it every fishing captain rejected me. I didn’t know how to tie knots and kept asking if the boat had a masturbation room. “A fella could die,” I explained.

My friend caught on with a salmon boat and so in the year 2000 I found myself alone and jobless in Wasila, Alaska. I recalled my tale of woe one day to a man called Smokey Joe. He was in the beef jerky business. Of course, in Wasila the phrase beef jerky is a euphemism. You never know if someone is actually drying meat or jerking it.

Apparently Smokey Joe knew a few people. He took pity on me, made a phone call, and the next thing I knew I was reporting to the mayor’s office.

It seems Mayor Palin refused to read her email on the computer. She called it Voodoo mail. So at the end of the day I would print them out and leave them on her desk for her to look at the next morning. Then, one day, it happened.

It was late June. The sun was still high in the sky. I didn’t knock because there was never anyone in the office. I don’t know why I didn’t hear the television.

I opened the door and saw the screen flickering. It was Anne Coulter explaining why Al Gore was a viscous voodoo viper. I listened for a moment then turned to the desk. There was Sarah Palin, feet on the desk, skirt hiked up, legs spread, her hand down below.

At first she didn’t take her eyes from Anne. Her captain’s chair shook back and forth from the vigor of her actions. Then she saw me. I had no time to react. She leapt over her desk, planted a foot in my chest and knocked me to the ground. Still watching Anne, she knelt over my face and did as she willed with me.

“Oh gosh,” she called out, her hips moving back and forth. “Dog gone it,” she screamed. That’s how you knew she was getting close. “Dog gone it. Dog gone it.” It was hard to breathe. But every time Anne Coulter swiped the Democrats Sarah Palin shivered and bucked. I grabbed one last gasp of air before surrendering to her little death.

“Because Bill Clinton’s a liar,” Anne Coulter hissed.

“Dog gone it,” Sarah Palin gasped.

“Because Al Gore’s a viscous voodoo viper,”

“Dog gone it.”

“Because George W. Bush is the only hope this country has.”

“Dog gone it!”

That’s how it ended that afternoon on the floor of the office of the mayor of Wasila. Sarah Palin stood up, tossed me a handkerchief and said, “Clean yourself up.”

Every afternoon I’d go to drop off her printed emails. And every afternoon there’d be Sarah warming up for me. She’d use me like the bone I was.

Anne Coulter was our porn. Sarah liked to ride me reverse cowboy style on the couch so she could watch. She’d already had three kids but I can tell you this about Sarah Palin, she does her kegels.

On weekends we’d rendezvous at a hunting cabin. It was one night there, bent over a potbelly stove, that she first spoke in tongues. On Sunday we’d buy a dead moose from Smokey Joe and strap it to the hood of her truck, an Alaskan alibi.

My responsibility for Sarah Plain’s star rising in the political firmament is this. I knew the night George W. Bush accepted the nomination would be an explosive night for us. We stayed in her office. I wrapped myself in the American Flag. She rocked on top of me the whole night. I watched from around her back. Then came the fateful moment.

As W. tripped and fell though his speech I shook my head and said, “I guess any idiot can be President.”

I felt Sarah Palin tighten around me. “Say that again,” she demanded. I would have said anything to keep her moving so I repeated it. “I guess any idiot can be President.”

“Dog gone it. Say it again.”

“I guess any idiot can be president.”

“Dog gone it. Dog gone it!”

Sarah Palin fell off me. She lay on the floor loose, luscious and panting. “I’m going to run for Lieutenant Governor,” she said. Then, seeing me so close, and ever the patriot, she pointed her finger at me and said, “Judah, don’t come on the flag.“ So I didn’t.

She did run for Lt. Governor in 2002. She lost but it set the stage for her eventual taking of the Governor’s seat.

But I didn’t know any of this when I left at the end of the summer. For me, it was just the end of a romance and I was sad to leave my Sarah Palin.

Driving back home with my friend I felt there was little I could say about my summer. So I asked him about his time on the fishing boat.

“It was great,” he said. “The whole thing is made possible because they set a room aside for you to g and masturbate in. They call it the beef jerky room. A fella could die, you know.”

An Addendum:

I actually went back to Alaska early this year to try to see Sarah Palin. She brushed me off now that she was Governor. I was hurt and fell into the arms of her daughter. The baby is mine. We’re naming it Anne Coulter.